You might well ask, Who the hell is Link Wray? But
first you have to read all this garbage about my childhood. Why? Because
it is the key to understanding Link Wray at least as he applies to me.
You don't care? Then surf somewhere else.

So here's the deal:

At 15, unlike most of my peers, I had not discovered
rock 'n' roll. I had heard it but it had never really resonated
with me. What do you expect? I played violin in the school orchestra and
cared about nothing more than the snooty girl who had been chosen first
chair in the orchestra over me. I would eventually quit over the trauma
of being passed over by this creature with overdeveloped mammary glands.
It's not that I didn't appreciate the aesthetics of these protuberances
but I was still naive enough to believe that talent and skill were still
the most important things for advancement in a musical career. I eventually
realized that I would never be able to compete with this girl or with any
person of aesthetically pleasing appearance and proportions with mere talent
and skill. I realized that being able to get through the first movement
of Mozart's Eiene Kleine Natchtmusik without a single mistake would
not even get me out of the second row next to the buck-toothed kid with
a cleft pallet and taped glasses.

Adolescence
is not an easy time of time for anyone but it is particularly devastating
for those of us who had not yet embraced our own cultural loathsomeness.
It was 1965.

So all I could do was go to Glen Echo Amusement
Park near Washington, D.C. and bury my sorrows in the terrors and delights
awaiting me there. I would ride the big old fashioned wooden roller coaster
until my shins bled and eat cotton candy and ice cream cones until I wanted
to puke. Yes, this was the life.

Why I wandered over to the area by the big outdoor
stage I could not begin to tell you. It was teaming with young attractive
adolescents in their turtle neck shirts and Beatle boots. I despised them,
each and every one. Perhaps I was motivated by some anthropological impulse
to discover in some way the secret motivations
of this mysterious and ugly
subculture. Maybe I actually wanted to be just like them, attractive
and popular... Today my memory has spared me this knowledge.

Hey! What is this crap?

I stood in the midst of this collection of offensive
human refuse, my senses overloaded with the sights and sounds and repugnant
odors. I wondered what had caused them to congregate in this place, what
ritual might be about to take place. I quivered with excitement at the
thought that I would be able to experience strange esoterica.

Then this guy from the park in a suit and tie
walked on stage and announced, 'Okay kids, Link Wray and the Ray-Men.
Donít throw your trash on the ground.'

I knew there was something wrong when the band
walked out on stage and a general disapproving murmur rose from the crowd.
Link Wray and the Ray-Men weren't even kids and they weren't wearing the
correct uniform of the HERD. They appeared in jeans, leather jackets, and
affected a generally belligerent expression that was clearly not acceptable
to this crowd. These guys looked like actors out of one of those embarrassing
50's teen-age movies. The crowd's disapproval was palpable.

Undaunted
Link Wray and the Ray-Men, fronted by this lanky guitarist with an impenetrable
sneer, began to play. Link's sneer was even more pronounced in the way
he sang and especially in what he played: loud crunchy power chords filled
with fuzz and distortion. This was an offense to the well-dressed and presentable
crowd and wanted something more mod (whatever that was) and demanded
it loudly between songs. Soon the audience was jeering and throwing trash
on stage to register their disapproval. Some even threw their ice cream
cones. The heart of the crowd thundered even louder than the music: This
isn't music, this is caca!

As Link Wray and the Ray-Men left the stage to
the derision of those assembled, I was struck with an epiphany:

Screw the violin. I want to play the guitar
and be just like Link Wray!

I asked myself: "Is this memory, Is any memory real Or is the past more tangential Than tangible?" Sometimes we need to make the trip To find out, To brave the elements And the twin threats Of failure and disappointment In order to excavate What is past But refuses to die. So in the ruins of my past I recognize the moment and question the necessity of time. But the zeitgeist rises From the ashes of what has been And I wept to learn his name, To discover the name I have always known and
cherished. From the native soil And the foreign land He comes robed in the reality of the present And scented with the perfume of the past. Thus will my eyes behold And my ears devour The cataclysm of his coming, His return, Indeed His resurrection, If only in my own heart. The judgment comes But none are judged And all the victims hunger for their own purification In this Purgatory We have created and occupied For such a long time. A guitar is not like a violin At all.